The Secret Life Of
by CyborgWithGreatHair
Summary: A series of short vignettes featuring some lesser known characters from the plumverse. Really, these characters are the heroes of the entire series. It's time we paid them some respect. Please R&R
1. Guns 1

The idea for this story came to me this afternoon. I was sitting in my father's arm chair, listening to The Bold and The Beautiful (which for some reason was on tv) and browsing the JEv Fanfic archives and I saw the title of a story by Two Guns and a Knife out of the corner of my eye while super-scrolling (scrolling really fast). The story was actually called The Secret Life Of A Trenton Police Detective HOWEVER I thought I saw "The Secret Life of Guns" and my mind immediately jumped to this little scene. Anyway, I hope you like it.

**_The Secret Life of Guns 1: **Single Women are Bang Happy**_**

_Smith and Wesson Video Diary Excerpt:_

_Go home with a single woman_, they said. _You'll never regret it_, they said. _They're bang happy_, they said. Well look who's living in the cookie jar now. Oh sure, living with a single woman is _great_. I get to sleep all day. And then at night, I get to sleep some more. Occasionally she'll take me for a walk. I get to go from the cookie jar, to her handbag, and then, when she remembers to, she puts me back in the cookie jar. God only knows what she does when she has me in her bag. I never see the light of day.

And bullets?

You've got to be kidding me. I've been starving since the day she brought me home. There was that one time that the man in black MADE her feed me, but that ended pretty quick. Don't get me wrong, I can _see_ the bullets. I can even hear them talking in hushed voices when they think I'm not listening. They discuss escape tactics. One of them almost got away once, rolled under the toaster but was discovered before too long. I like to tease them about their dead end, suicide jobs, but they just snicker and remind me that it's been ages since I've felt the thrill of being shot.

Honestly, I had such high hopes when she came into the shop that day. She had that great Latino guy with her. The one with all the guns. I bet his actually get used. He's the one that picked me out, you know? He held me and checked me and then he passed me off to her, and I've been doomed ever since.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I get _no _action. There were a couple of times where I got stuffed down her pants. That was pretty exciting for a little while until I realised that she wasn't actually going to pull me out for anything useful. She pointed me at a couple of people, but that was about it. Oh! And there was the time she got me to shoot that guy THROUGH her handbag. That was pretty cool too, but it would have been cooler if she let me see the guy's face as I pumped him full of those snivelling bullets. I think she thinks that just because she doesn't want to see it no one wants to see it.

_Hello!_ I'm a _GUN_! I LIVE to see that kind of thing.

Anyway, I better go, the Italian is lecturing her about not being prepared for the crazies of the world, so he's probably about to pull me out to prove she's incompetent. If only he would confiscate me to prove a point. I'm sure I'd be better treated at his place. I'm sick of this cookie jar.

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><p><em>So? What do you think? Any suggestions for future vignettes? I have at least one more gun one and a car one up my sleeves.<em>


	2. Rangeman SUV

****_This one is longer than I intended it, but it needed to be in order to really get the feel of the character. I hope it gets as much respect as the poor old Smith and Wesson from last chapter. Enjoy_

**_The Secret Life of a Rangeman SUV_**

Support Group Meeting

Working at Rangeman is probably the best job there is. I mean, who doesn't love driving around town all day catching criminals and then coming home to hang with their mates? No one, that's who! This is the perfect guy job. Nothing to bring us down. All for one and one for all and all that jazz. My future's so bright I gotta wear shades.

At least that's how it was looking until _she_ turned up.

No, I'm not talking about the Turbo who has her very own special spot in the corner that hardly has to lift a finger to earn her living. Her I can tolerate. In fact, she's super hot. I'm just waiting for the day I'm parked next to her so I can make my move. I tell you what, I am _hot_ with the ladies... especially when the Rangemen leave me out in the sun for too long. Black _really _heats up.

But I digress.

The downfall of all Rangeman SUVs started with this one puny human. She permeates our musky, manly interiors with her girly perfume, her high pitched laughter and occasionally her sticky blood – as if we don't get enough of that from the freaking crims. And on top of that, she sheds like a dog in the summer! The amount of hair she's left inside the cabs of my friends is just astounding. Every now and then they'll burst out laughing as they're tickled from the inside. I always thought they were just being dramatic, trying to buy attention.

Until now.

Today, I think of all my buddies that have been exposed to this woman and never returned to the garage or have returned with more dents, and holes than is acceptable for a Rangeman SUV. It's so sad to watch them puttering back in, limp and lifeless only to be taken away the next day and replaced by some cocky new, straight-off-the-showroom-floor model (Don't worry we quickly suck the wind out of their sails). It would almost be less painful if they had been totalled.

So anyway, this woman had been driving me for not even an hour and already I feared that I would never see the garage again. The moment she stepped off the elevator and the boss man pointed her in my direction I said my goodbyes and made sure all the loose ends were tied with my mates. This woman makes a day with the Rangemen seem like Driving Miss Daisy. I was covered in garbage, parked in the middle of a neighbourhood _known_ for car thefts, my insides smelled like flowers and McDonald's fries, there were tastykake wrappers strewn across my back seat and now the shifty guy on the corner was eyeing me off, probably thinking he'd like to take me for a ride.

That's when the shooting started.

The woman came hurtling out of the house, tearing up the lawn with her stupid pointy shoes as she tried to get on the other side of me, out of the line of fire. Which of course meant that I _was_ in the line of fire. Freaking _bullets_ hitting me in the side! What was stopping this woman from getting shot? ME! If she wasn't behind me, I'd be _fine_. But noooo. She wants to risk some asshole hitting just the wrong spot and blowing the BOTH of us up.

She was on the phone. I kid you not. I'm being riddled with holes that _hurt_ and she's on the phone. No doubt, she's calling the boss man. Who will call on the Rangemen and send them over with my mates so that we can _all _get shot at. One big happy family.

As if on cue, three black SUVs, guys I've know most of my life, came zooming around the corner. They all screeched to a stop around me, puffing and panting, out of exhaust. Humans dressed in black jumped out and hustled around, two went skulking around trying to ambush the crazy maniac who _hadn't run out of bullets yet_. And the boss man escorted the woman down the street under the cover of the bushes on the other side of the road.

A third man got inside me and took off in the opposite direction, finally getting me out of the way. I'd never been so relieved to be driven in my life. My wounds were still smoking as the other two Rangemen came out of the house with the asshole between them. They shoved him into the back of Bert, my best mate, and beckoned boss man and the woman over. They were in a huddle, discussing whatever, I don't really care. But what they didn't notice was the woman that came to the door of the neighbouring house, shotgun in hand.

One moment they were having a good old pow-wow without me, the next they're running for cover as Bert _explodes!_ I'm telling you. The flames reached the sky! It would have been a spectacular display if it hadn't been for the fact that my best mate was dead. Dead, I tell you. Totalled. Not even going to the junk yard. They'd be scraping him off the pavement.

All I could think was, _that was supposed to be me_. I was supposed to be the one shot and blown up. The crazy man had come so close to hitting my gas tank. I was lucky to be alive. But Bert wasn't. Bert was gone.

It was hours before we managed to get away, back to the garage. But none of us spoke. We were all still too shocked. There was an almighty roar of approval as we entered the garage. Everyone was so excited that I'd survived the day that they didn't even notice Bert missing until we'd all taken our places and were preparing to shut down for the night. The shouts and exclamations and congratulations died out pretty quick and we each silently mourned another comrade lost to the Bombshell Bounty Hunter.

The boss man let her drive me for another week before he finally deigned to put me out of my misery. I was taken to a junk yard where I met up with a few guys I'd seen around the garage a few years back. They looked terrible. Scratched to buggery. Holes all over. Some of them were even starting to rust. But they assured me it was a better life there. There were no reckless women looking to get us destroyed and once a month they have a support group meeting where we could talk about how the woman ruined us. I was sceptical at first, but it really does help to talk about it.

I still miss the Rangemen, but I'm glad I'm nowhere near that woman.

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><p><em>Don't forget to review!<em>


	3. Audio Transmitter 1

****_I'd like to make it clear, because it seems a couple of people have missed the objective of this series, that I will not be doing a vignette from the POV of Rex. This is for inanimate objects. Rex is most definitely animate._

_Thanks so much for everyone's support and suggestions. I love hearing from you and if you think of a scenario for an object that you think would be amusing, send it in. If nothing else, it'll inspire me to write more, or give me a laugh. :P_

**_The Secret Life of an Audio Transmitter _**

**Part 1: The Perks of Being a d Body Mic**

You would not believe how incredibly lucky I am. I have friends who moan about their jobs, constantly stuck with sweaty, hairy blokes with BO problems. They tell me what a cushy job I have. And they do mean cushy quite literally, because while they're out, strapped to hairy chests and listening ogre-like grunting communication, _I_ am nestled snugly between two lovely voluptuous mountains. Okay, so they're not exactly mountains, but they sure beat the hell out of hairy manboobs any day. On my left is a mound of creamy, lace clad flesh. And if I look to the right, there's another supple breast rising up, ready for my viewing pleasure. They heave when she breathes. They bounce when she walks. They bounce more when she runs. And they come for cuddles when she adjusts them.

Pure. Heaven.

Sometimes, I'm so captivated by the glorious flesh I'm surrounded by that I almost forget to do my job. I'm so easily distracted, you know? Especially when all she's doing is singing along to the car radio. She has a great voice. Not spectacular, but nice enough, considering the grating voices my colleagues have to put up with.

I think, that if I wasn't a body mic, I might have been a sound effects artist or a cartoon voice person thing. Reese – short for Receiver, he's my partner – says that my car sounds are the best he's ever heard and I can imitate voices perfectly.

"Mike," he says to me while we're lazing about in our padded box. "Mike, do the explosion again." I've gotten really good at explosions recently. Seriously, this woman is a disaster, but such great experience. I'm constantly updating my list of skills on my resume. Just recently I've got to practice my drive-thru rasp, I've expanded my gun fire repertoire, and I'm getting pretty good at the sound of making out.

Today was a pretty good day 'at the office' as they say. Already I'd gotten to practice imitating her husky voice as she tried to seduce some scum-ball-sleazebag in a bar. Then I got to do my bad guy impersonation as he hit on her. Reese was on the edge of his seat, hanging off my every word.

"Eeeerrk," I squealed, making the sound of the bar stool scraping as the scumbag moved closer and brushed her hair. "Another scotch and coke?" I relayed in the bartender's deep voice. A few beats followed where all I could hear was slurping and the "Doof Doof Doof" of the music. Then the perp spoke. "Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?" I sneered, then gasped as the mound of flesh to my left moved unnaturally._ He was touching her!_ I made a rustling noise as the lace and the dress brushed against my head. "Not recently," my best friend (that would be the owner of the beautiful breasts, FYI) squeaked. She sounded nervous. I tried to portray that in my impersonation, it was really important that Reese heard it so he could warn the guys at his end.

Another "Eeeerrk," as they got off their stools. _What the hell were they doing? _"Could you walk me to my car?" I relayed as the mountains began to wobble. "I had to park down the street and I don't want to walk that far on my own."

"Doof Doof Doof Doof." _Jiggle Jiggle Jiggle. "_Doof Doof Doof Doof." _Jiggle Jiggle Jiggle. _Why weren't they talking?

"Mike?" came Reese's voice in my ear. "What's going on, I can't hear anything over the music."

"I'm doing my best!" I whispered. "Doof Doof Doof. Creeaaaak. Foom. Zzzzzzzzzzzzoooooooooooooom." Silence. We must have gone outside.

Everything was eerily quiet and still for a moment, I was just about to breathe a sigh of relief that the perp wasn't going to do anything nasty to her. _Jiggle Jiggle Jiggle._ Okay, we were walking again. "It's just on the next corner –rustle-," I relayed. She must have pointed in the direction, because her breast leaned a little closer. All of a sudden, it was hard to keep up with the noise. There was rustling, shouting, scuffling, even a zzzap. And then flesh all around me was _incredibly_ close.

"You did good, Babe," I imitated with a slight Latin accent. "Let's get you home." There was lip smacking and fabric rustling and I was unceremoniously reefed from my cozy little nest. The wind in my ears was the last thing I registered as I swung through the air and was put to sleep. My job was done for the night. They never let me listen to the good stuff that happened after the job.

Not anymore at least.

It happened once, when they forgot I was there. Reese said that everyone on his end was listening so intently that they almost forgot about the perp. Those are the good old days. Anyway, I guess I'll be getting some rest now, since I'm not needed anymore.

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><p><em>You did SUCH a great job reviewing last chapter. Keep up the good work and I'll probably be motivated to write more. But for now, I'm off to have dinner and get ready for choir. DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW!<em>


	4. Cars

_Okay, I knew pretty much nothing about writing a will before I started this chapter, so I used a wiki how. Any mistakes are courtesy of me and the wiki-how author, but remember, it's make believe. And just for a bit of random trivia, chapter 2 of this story got like THIRTY reviews, which is pretty monumental. I mean, how awesome is that! I'm loving you all right now._

**_The Secret Life Of Cars_**

_The Last Will and Testament of the Car Next to Steph's Buick_

I, NISSAN NIVARA D16 – HGQ, of the parking space next to Steph's Blue Buick, New Jersey, do hereby make, publish and declare this instrument to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills and Codicils I formerly may have made.

I appoint my owner, Gregory Philips, as executor of this will and empower him to pay any and all debts including funeral, taxes and other expenses.

Should I be cremated, I direct that my ashes be hosed away in order to maintain the cleanliness of the state. In the case that there are any salvageable parts remaining, I bequeath them to my regular body shop to aid in the service of cars damaged by the Bombshell Bounty Hunter.

I authorise my executor to sell my garage space and personal belongings, and hope that he has enough respect to honour my memory by not replacing me with a newer, younger, more naive model out to please with its economical gas mileage, shiny exterior and unscuffed interiors.

- My brand new CD-Radio is to go to my owner's Garage Mate, HONDA CIVIC A12 – BCD

- My jumper leads go to my owner Gregory Philips

- My spare tire is to be sold, the proceeds of which are to go to my owner's beer fridge fund.

- The new seat covers – to be found in the garage cupboard, where they have lived ever since purchase, along with the steering wheel cover – should go to my replacement, since my owner will probably want to use them on him/her anyway

My assets shall be divided as follows

- My rather neglectful owner is to receive eight (80%) percent should he survive me. If he too is killed in the inevitable carnage that comes from being near the Bombshell Bounty Hunter and her messenger of evil – the indestructible Blue Buick – the share of Gregory Philips shall pass to his wife Nina Philips should she survive Gregory Philips and myself. Otherwise the share is to be distributed evenly amongst their children.

- The remaining twenty (20%) percent shall go to Al's Autoshop as thanks for all the hard work he has put in to my maintenance.

If there are any other assets remaining in my estate including but not limited to real property, personal property, causes of action or any other assets, of whatsoever nature and wheresoever situate, I give, bequeath, and devise such residue to Gregory Philips street BMX bike so that he can get a new paint job.

The executor _must_ post bond.

The alternative executor should Gregory Philips be unable to carry out his duties is Al Johnstone of Al's Autoshop.

Signed  
>NISSAN NIVARA D16 – HGQ<p>

Witnessed by  
>MAZDA MIATA T45 - YXE<p>

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><p><em>Keep up the great reviewing. You are my favourite peoples in the whole entire world and I loves you!<em>


	5. Shoes 1

_Alrighty. Personally, really excited about this chapter. I was trying to decide which item to do next, looking over my ever growing list and I saw the pair of FMPs (thanks to whoever suggested that) and a line from a RENT song ran through my head. It's not my favourite song from the musical (that spot is reserved for La Vie Boheme) however, I don't hate it. That song is Out Tonight. If you haven't heard it, go youtube it. We'll wait... Listened to it? Okay, great. Get reading._

**_The Secret Life of Shoes_**

_Part 1: Out Tonight with a Pair of FMPs_

It had to be close to midnight Saturday night when the phone rang, interrupting my beauty sleep. This kind of thing happens all the time, she gets a call just when we're all settled down for the night with no regard for those of use who might be resting. She spoke with the caller for a few minutes and we were all looking at each other, trying to figure out if any of us would be needed. The sneakers were closest to the closet door and attempting to relay the conversation, but having been worked all day they were too exhausted to concentrate properly. Doctors Martin and Martin were practically squirming in place ready to see some action. They put the rest of us to shame with their boundless energy, but had absolutely no self respect. They wore their scuff marks proudly, like war wounds. Last time I got to go out I thought I got a scuff mark and cried for a week, until Steph cleaned me up and I realised it was just some dust.

Finally, Steph hung up the phone and started toward our closet. She stopped halfway across the room and the air was immediately filled with music. I knew what that meant. After a short tussle with a pair of worn heels, I pushed myself to the front of the crowd ready and raring to go.

"Time for danger," Steph announced, reefing open the doors and looking in at us out.I loved it when she thought out loud. It made it feel like she was actually talking to us – which I knew she wasn't; she may be a little out there, but she wasn't crazy. Only a crazy woman would talk to her shoes. She stared straight ahead at the clothes hanging above us and I felt a little neglected for a moment – irrational, I know, but I can't help the way I feel. "Tight skirt," she muttered, moving coat hangers back forth. "Tight skirt, tight skirt, tight skirt. Ugh, he knows I'm not that comfortable with my body."

She may not be comfortable with it, but the men certainly were. She has a knack for breaking the rules, which let me tell you, the guys lurrrve. It's like she's saying, "Life's too short to live in the slow lane."

I idon't know what she's complaining about. I adore going out. Steph's a great dancer, which means I look extra hot when we're out. And she doesn't even have to pay to get into these places! She gets in for free all the time! I love free fun.

Finally, she quit her grumbling and threw my favourite outfit partner – a skin tight, black mini skirt with lace strips down the side. Mmmmhmmm, we are gonna be looking _fine_. She tossed out a halter top as well and then bent to pick me up!

"Woo!" I cried, soaring through the air to land on the bed. I landed with a soft _fwump_ and immediately broke out in the chorus. "I wanna go ow-woooot toni-ight. I have to go ow-woooot toni-ight. You wanna play? Let's run away. We won't be back till New Years Day! Take me ow-wooot tonight!" This is my jam, I'm telling you. The song must have been written for me.

Steph spent about twenty minutes on her hair and by the end of it, she looked exactly how she had when she first opened the closet, then slathered on her mascara with a few hints of colour on her lids and lips. Finally, I was on her feet and we were sashaying out the door, accompanied by a very hawt pair of combat boots. I gave a wink as we stepped into the elevator.

"Coming dancing with me, are you?" I asked huskily.

"A sex kitten like you?" he replied. "I wouldn't miss this for the world.

In my head, my song was still playing and I mentally belted out another chorus as we made our way out of the building. I must have been humming it as we approach the Porsche Turbo, because she sang out. "Well take my hand, we're gonna how-woool. Out tonight!"

The brilliant thing about these trips is that I don't really have to do any walking. Dancing, yes. Walking, no. Ms. Porsche Turbo takes me there, I get out and dance, get the guy, and she takes me back home... or, you know, wherever she wants to take me, I'm not all that fussy. So you'd think I'd get to relax for the drive, wouldn't you? Are you _kidding?_ Omigord. There is no way I could possibly relax. It's so exciting! I feel so at home when I go out that I literally can't sit still.

Finally, we arrived at the club. The bass was jumping and I was practically skipping in anticipation. I reeeeaaaaallly wanted to dance. Like, _really_. As much as I was a party animal out in the open world, in there, where it's dark, and mysterious, I am whoever I want to be. I am twelve inch platform stripper stilettos. I am hot pink pumps. I am flamenco. I am _free_.

So we were dancing our super sexy, alluring dance - the one that always gets the guys - and all of a sudden a pair of sleazy, pointed toe men's shoes are in front of me, chatting me up. This must have been the target. I smiled coyly at them, winking as they paid me yet another leather crawling compliment. For a second, I forgot how to be persuasive. I knew I needed to get him out of the bar, but I couldn't think of what to say in order to achieve that.

I was about to allow him to slide along my side when a line from my party song came to me. I put on my best Mimi Marquez drawl and went to town.

"You're sweet," I told him, dragging along the floor in that way that men's shoes always love. "Wanna hit the streets?"

"Do I ever." He seemed transfixed by my movements. _Good._

"Wanna howl at the moon like a cat in heat?" He groaned, causing me to grin. "Just take me out tonight."

We made our way through the maze of dancing shoes to the door and stepped out into the cool night air. Honestly, I didn't want to leave yet, but I had to get Sleazy McGee out of the club. The moment we were outside, I stepped to the left of the door, out of the way of the four pairs of combat boots that launched at poor old Sleazy. Next thing I knew, he was flying through the air to land flat on the ground, two men on top of him, two more pointing guns at him.

A shiver ran down my spin. Guns were so sexy. They way they glint in the light. Their smoking hot barrels. I'd love to lie down with one of them. As it is, I'd only ever gotten quick glances as they skid across the floor near me. Forever a fantasy, I suppose. Just as I was sighing my regret, those hawt combats we're in front of me again.

"We're not done," they told me.

I felt myself purr. _I'm going out tonight_.

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><p><em>You know the drill by now. Review and be rewarded. <em>


	6. Door Locks

_Do you feel like I'm spamming you tonight? I feel a bit like I'm spamming you all... Three updates in one night. I'm really sorry, guys. I'll stop now._

**_The Secret Life of Door Locks_**

_Confessions of a Substandard Locking Mechanism_

Alright, fine. I'll admit it. I'm _ticklish_. The slightest touch and I'm so giggly and squirmy that everything just sort of... opens. Don't look at me like that. I can't help it. It's not my fault I'm overly sensitive. I was _made_ that way. And so what if I don't do my job properly? It's not like my type of lock are known for reliability anyway. I have a cousin downstairs that will open if you hit the wall next to him. And my friend down the hall doesn't lock properly at all.

I don't see what the big deal is. I mean. They don't work properly. I'm ticklish, so I can't help but open whenever someone pokes something at me. Why am I the one catching all the flak? And really, the people who break in are going to find a way in no matter what, so what does it matter if I'm easy? If you want people to stop invading your home you have two options: get rid of me, or stop aggravating people!

Oh... wait! No! I didn't mean it! Don't get rid of me! I love being here. It's so exciting. I get to meet new people all the time. It's the best job in the world. I promise I'll try harder. I'll do exercises to try to strengthen my control over my mechanism. Like those kegel exercise I heard about once when Steph left the TV on too loud. I'm sure that would help. I can do it. I'll be the greatest lock there ever was!

Okay, maybe not the greatest lock, but I'll be better than old No-Locky down the hall. I'll hold my own under their prodding. I'll make them work for it.

Alright. Time to concentrate. I've gotta tighten my mechanisms so I can defend the fortress.

_Tighten. Tighten. . Tighten-tighten-tighten-tighten-tighten._

Wow, this is exhausting. I wonder how decent locks keep it up. All this squeezing and pushing. It's a wonder they don't just seize up and never unlock again! I've been at this for, like, a minute and my mechanisms are already sore.

OO! Here's my chance to prove myself worthy! The tall, dark and mysterious man was approaching from the end of the hall, already fishing something – most likely his lock picking tools – out of his cargo pocket. The moment of truth. Do the kegel exercises work? I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't a little excited right now. I mean, how often do you get the opportunity to better yourself in my line of work?

Pretty much never. That's how often. The rule is you work or you're replaced. I had a feeling I was dangerously close to being-

_Oh!_ Oh! Nooooo. Oh, it's cold! He didn't even warm the tool up! It'scoldit'scoldit'scold! Must stay strong. Squeeze my mechanisms closed. Don't open. Don't open. Don't-

He wiggled the tool a little and I burst into a fit of giggles, my mechanisms sliding easily out of the way. As I simultaneously giggled, and acknowledged the disappointment I felt for myself, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. It stopped with a jerk after only a couple of inches.

_Jane that Chain was in place!_

Jane was pretty formidable most of the time. No one could just stroke her and persuade her to unlatch. Well, no one, that is, except tall, dark and mysterious. She totally has the hots for him.

"Jane!" I called to her. "Jane, you have to resist! Don't let him in! I'm trying really hard to be better at my job but we nee-." I stop talking as the door swung fully open to admit the mysterious man. One-nil. We'll try again next time. There will, of course, be a next time. There's always a next time. I'll have to work double hard on my kegels though.

_. . Tight-tighten-tighten... tighten... tigh...ten... T. I. G. H. T. E. N._

Yeah! I'm gonna be a super door lock by the end of this. I can already feel my mechanisms... OW! Oh, seizing up. Okay, time to call it quits for tonight.

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><p><em>Come on. Everyone help out the poor old door locks. Say it with me <em>TIIIIGGGHHHHTTTEEEENNNNN!_ And be good little readers and go review :D_


	7. Utility Belt

_I'm not sure this one is as good or funny as the previous stories... but it's how the Utility Belt insisted it be told... So here goes._

_**The Secret Life of Utility Belts**_

_Lament of the Under-Respected _

"Beretta 92FS 9mm 15 round," I called.

"Here, Sergeant Major!" came the prompt reply.

"Runt Stun Gun, 2.5 million volts."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"Buck 110 Folding Hunter Knife."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"Maglite 2-cell D Torch with Powerful focusing beam."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"Streamlight Stylus Pen Light."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"iPhone, on silent and set to Walkie Talkie Mode."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"Handcuffs, Police Issue, Double Locking."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"Southord MPXS-62 Lockpick set."

"Here, Sergeant Major!"

"Keys."

My call was met with silence, not that I was surprised. The keys were hardly ever present for roll call. They thought that just because they had an exuberant life outside the military that they were exempt from the basic duties. Frankly, I didn't think they were fit to serve in this man's army, but I didn't make those decisions. It was the big man who chose who was under my command.

I sighed. "Has anyone seen the keys?"

"I believe they're in the dish by the door, sir," iPhone called out confidently. He wasn't fooling me. Everyone knew that he was just as flaky as the keys, often going off on his own. The amount of times I'd found his holster empty in the middle of the day was simply atrocious. In fact he wasn't even in his holster right now. No, he was lazing about nearby, like he was above procedure. I'd attempted to throw him out on a number of occasions, but the big man seemed to be playing favourites, always allowing iPhone and the keys back in. He was so soft. How he managed to get this far in life, I have no idea. If it was up to me iPhone and the keys would be long gone, replaced by more loyal characters.

Another sigh left my lips. I didn't see how I was supposed to keep track of them all if the big man never returned them to their rightful place. What if there was an emergency and he only had time to grab me? Half the time he'd be without communication and a way to get around, because the phone and keys wouldn't be there. My job is so underappreciated.

The big man himself came through the door of his dressing room, dressed in black from head to toe and ready for action. Finally. You'd think that he'd be quicker at this kind of thing. He should have been in and out of the dressing room in thirty seconds flat. But no. He'd spent a good minute and a half in there and he still wasn't even wearing his boots.

He plopped down on the bed beside me, picked up iPhone and started dialing. Call me irrational, but I'm pretty sure he did it out of blatant lack of respect for me. He's lucky I have nowhere else to go, or I'd have quit this job long ago.

"Babe," he greeted, and I had to stifle a groan. _We were going out with _her? It was like he was torturing me. Punishing me for some act of disobedience I hadn't committed. Running with _her_ was like attempting to sever my buckle with a penlight. Painful and pointless. She kept her tools in her handbag for Christsake. "Ten minutes. Meet me in the parking lot."

This was officially a doomed mission. First the keys didn't show up for roll call. Then iPhone refused to fall in line. And now we're being joined by 'Babe' and her inability to follow proper procedures. I'm sure her equipment is having a party in that bag of hers; constantly in a state of drunkenness due to their freedom. That was no way to keep them loyal. Was it any wonder she was a walking disaster?

After a moment, the big man stood, dropping iPhone into his pocket – _his pocket! - _ and finally picked me up. I was strapped around his hips in no time at all, feeling the power that had been dwindling surge up with that final _click_.

"Lock and load, boys," I cried gleefully. "We're on the move. Be ready for action at all times." As we passed the dish by the front door, the big man scooped up the keys and dumped them in their special pouch I had installed. "Nice of you to join us," I called sarcastic from my position up front.

"Sorry, sir," he apologised. "I was held captive."

"Likely story," I commented. "You've been spending too much time around _her_ and her equipment. They're rubbing off on you."

Beretta, the only member of the arsenal that I actually had a smidgeon of respect for – and only because he was old and wise – raised his voice. "We need to focus on the job at hand now. You can court marshal the keys later."

"Of course," I simpered. "Thank you for the advice."

"Pipe down," Beretta retorted. "I'm sick of hearing your voice."

This is what I get for being good at my job. Keys that don't show up for roll call. An iPhone that lazes about wherever he wants. And a gun that clearly thinks he outranks me. Of course, Beretta's seen so much that he may as well out rank me. Trying to control this lot was a bit like trying to juggle geese. Pretty much impossible, and you were likely to get into some undesirable situations if you handled them wrong. Buckles crossed I wouldn't end up with the wrong end of the goose by the end of the night.

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><p><em>Coming Soon: The Secret Life of Guns 2, featuring the Wise Old Beratta. Don't forget to review.<em>


	8. Guns 2

_Back from the dead! Almost Literally. Last Saturday, I awoke with a terrible sore throat, and ear ache and a fever. I thought very little of the sore throat - I'm a singer and therefore figured I'd just overdone the rehearsals (which were almost a week past at that point, but my brain was discounting that logic) - figured the ear ache was from renewed aquatice activities (since I suffered from ear aches a lot when I was a kid and doing a lot of swimming) and I managed to get past the fever while grocery shopping. That afternoon I went to a choir concert and sang with very little difficulty (I've sung with a sore throat before, no big deal). On the way home, though I started to feel feverish and chilled again. Sunday I felt dead. Monday, when the doctor's openned again, I went along, expecting him to tell me what he tells me every other time I go to him with a sore throat - that I had a cold, go take some amoxycilin and drink plenty of water. But he didn't. He took one look at my throat and was like "Severe tonsilitis" then beckonned mum over to have a look at how pretty my throat was *eye roll*. Therein followed a four day stint of ... well... sleep. Interrupted by occasional bouts of forcing food down and very miniscule amount of reading. So when I got up this morning, feeling almost normal (despite the horrific cough that has developed in the 36 hours, threatening to reef my internal organs from within my body) I decided it was a good time to write. I apologies if it is not up to my usual standard, but I'm sure you understand, given the circumstances._

**_The Secret Life of Guns 2_**

_The Life and Times of Beretta_

I've seen things. Things that would make lesser guns run crying home to mommy. I've seen the look of a dying man as he breathed his last breath. I've caused that look on more than one occasion. I've killed. I've maimed. I've orphaned. I've rescued. I've released. I've done it all. After so many years of service it was all starting to blur together. I couldn't quite distinguish between what I did for the good of the many - read: the world and it's people, actions that kept them safe or saved them from danger - and the good of the one - not specifically me, of course; I have very little needs and those I do have are fulfilled by my keeper, the only being in the universe I answered to. Ever. And that included that god damned utility belt.

The day my keeper brought that utility belt under his employ was the day this institution went to bedlam. He started dishing out orders that were beyond his call of duty. He tried to keep everyone in their barracks unless he ordered otherwise. He even tried to end the covert missions we'd spent years setting up for iPhone and the keys. In short, he'd made a complete disaster of the operations.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I understand his need to be in control. I'd had to overcome such urges myself over the years. It was so easy to simply pull my own trigger when my keeper hesitated a moment. Clearly there was a reason he'd pointed me at the Vic, so why not just follow through? But no, I'd had to learn to trust my keeper's instincts.

It had definitely grown easier in recent years. I'd begun to tire of trying to make decisions for him. I no longer attempted to misfire in the face of criminals I thought unworthy of life. I just let him point me wherever he wanted and let him do what he needed to do. I like to think I'd taught him a thing or two about impulse over the years though. Why else would he have killed those men for naught else but threatening his mistress?

Oh yes, together me and my keeper were far from innocent. We were the best killers there were in our day. Still we're on the odd occasion. But like me, he seemed to long for something just beyond his reach. For me, it was a week of R and R. Just one week in which I was not used or even pulled from the safe. This weary old steel could take only so much. For him? I had a feeling it has something to do with his mistress.

All the heavy duty work he'd been forcing on me lately was always related to her. Probably, if he hadn't met her, I'd have gone into retirement years ago. He'd have picked out a live young Glock to take my place. Trotting me out only for special occasions, like guys we'd been looking for for years. It just doesn't seem right to hand those old cases to a new gun out of the safe. They were too inexperienced. Wouldn't recognise the right moment to go against their keeper's wishes and just shoot.

Don't get me wrong, my keeper has gotten new guns over the years, he's just too faithful to really put me to rest. I wish he would though. I'm tired of this gig. I've accumulated enough horrific memories to keep me up for the rest of eternity. It's time to pass the torch. I'm too old to rock. No more rocking for me.

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><p><em>A review away keeps the doctor away? *hopeful expression*<em>


	9. Audio Transmitter 2

_The second code name in this story immediately stuck in my head the moment I contemplated writing about this little Audio Transmitter (right back when I first started the series). It's been a great source of joy to think about it and now it's finally on the screen. _

**_Secret Life of an Audio Transmitter 2_**

_Behind Enemy Lines: An Undercover Mission [Transcript]_

**Little Ear**: Little Ear to Slippery Duck. Little Ear to Slippery Duck. Come in Slippery Duck.

**Slippery Duck**: I read you, Little Ear. What's the 411?

**Little Ear:** Suspect C has arrived and is setting up as usual. The clunk of the nail vanish bottle sounds like Vampire-Whore-Red, but I could be getting it confused with My-Boyfriend-Bashed-My-Brains-In Purple. Given history, the likely guess is Vampire-Whore-Red. C appears to be humming "Footloose."

**Slippery Duck: **The movie was on television last night. My wife insisted on watching it. Alert me when L and S arrive.

**Little Ear: **Copy that. – _rustling sound - _ C is now distributing new case files. Suspect S's pile sounds heavier than the Winged Avenger's. Calamity could ensue. Prepare odour defence sprays and check insurance policies.

**Slippery Duck: **-_ vile language redacted – _When will she learn to just give everything but the cheap-os to the Winged Avenger and his cronies? Every time S gets a tall pile it ends up costing me money.

**Little Ear: **_- door bangs, heavy footsteps, dull thump –_ Suspect L has entered the premises and presumably flopped on the couch. Once again, filing will be left until later. If ever. L is complaining about the early hour and a foray between the sheets last night. Slippery Duck, I don't want to hear this stuff.

**Slippery Duck:**_ - groan _ – Nor do I, Little Ear. Tune her out. No vital information comes from her anyway.

_[A few minutes of mumbled conversation]_

**Little Ear: **_- over a low rumbling_ – Suspect S is approaching in latest POS car.

**Slippery Duck: **She really needs to get a new muffler.

**Little Ear: **Suspect S has entered the building and appears to have her panties in a knot. The words scumbag, overbearing and _–vile language redacted_ – have issued from her mouth numerous times and she is pacing quickly across the room. She appears to be complaining about a guy named Bob and how he misses her.

**Slippery Duck:** Ugh. Morelli.

**Little Ear: **C is offering S the pile of case files and returning to the nail varnish... Yes, definitely Vampire-Whore-Red.

**Slippery Duck: **When will any of them do some real work around here?

**Little Ear: **Suspect S has taken the files and is saying her goodbyes. It appears she has an appointment with the Winged Avenger. C has suggested she take his pile of files to him. S agreed and they have set up a lunch date for later on in the week.

**Slippery Duck: **Probably during my time. _– banging and stomping –_

**Little Ear: **Slippery Duck! No! You mustn't compromise the mission by entering their territory! No! I don't know what the protocol is for reporting what you say in their territory, so I'll just have to go ahead and do it. It seems most logical:

_Slippery Duck: You can't afford to be trotting off to lunch all the time. I need you here_

_Suspect C: It's just lunch. An hour out of the day that I already get off. –_ silence_ – You've done it again, haven't you?_

_Slippery Duck: Done what again? What are you talking about?_

- Rustling sound –

**Little Ear: **I've been caught! I knew you'd blow our cover! Tell my ma I love her!

_- Crunching, cracking, grinding, followed by static -_

END TRANSMISSION

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><p><em>Go on, review. You know you want to.<em>


	10. Big Blue

_Here you go. The latest secret story. Stay tuned for my new one shot, coming up very soon. It's half written already! _

**_The Secret Life of Big Blue_**

Delusions of the Over Confident

I. Am. God.

You might think I'm being foolish by making such a statement. Wrath of the Lord will smite you and all that jazz. But I'm pretty sure it's true. In the world of automobiles at least. I am indestructible. I am invincible. I am judgement day for other vehicles. Fear me.

Generally in life, there is a hierarchy. It goes something like this:

1) God and all those other deity type people things

2) Humans

3) Carnivorous Animals

4) Herbivorous Animals

5) Automobiles and machines

6) Plants

7) Fungus

There are instances where the heirachy is muddled up, like when plants are poisonous and kill humans, or when Carnivorous animals get hungry and eat humans. And then there's me. I am in the God category, despite being a lowly automobile. I choose who lives and who dies. I am almighty. I am the all powerful Lord. I am vengeful.

I didn't always know I was God. No, that's a fairly recent discovery.

Years ago when I was in the care of Good Ol' Sandor, I just thought other cars were sissies, exploding at the first sign of fire or bombing and crumpling as soon as possible in a car crash. I'd been in way more crashes and disasters than every other car I knew, but I never complained. I felt good as new, like I'd just come off the showroom floor. Not a scratch on me. Other cars around me were always moaning and whining about busted this and aching that. Whimps.

Then Sandor died and Dear Little Edna came into my life. She realled seemed to get me. We were on the same page. Together we got into all sorts of trouble, but always came out on top. I was starting to think that I was more than a car. I was a protector, sent to keep watch over Edna. Like a guardian angel.

It wasn't until I met her granddaughter that things started to click. Stephanie was just like her grandmother. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. But things were different. People were targeting me with their bombs and fires. I had to fight back. I had to rise above it. I had to reach inside myself to a place I never knew existed. I had to discover my true purpose on this earth.

And what a discovery I made.

I was no lowly vehicle put on this planet to chauffer humans from point A to pont B. It wasn't even as simple as being a protector. Not anymore. I was bigger than that. The decisions I made dictated which cars and people lived, and which died a horrible, fiery death.

That's when I knew I was God.

If not _the_ God, set upon the earth for the divine purpose of ridding the world of sinners, then _a_ God, serving the council of the Lord. Judging mankind and automobiles alike and presenting their fates to them on a bomb-filled platter.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, worship me. Bow down before me. Sacrifice goats at my altar. For I will decide what will become of you.

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><p><em>You know what to do. Hit the button and follow the prompts.<em>


	11. Dumpsters

_No, I haven't forgotten about my lovely little inanimate objects. They just stopped bugging me so much to make their stories heard. Until today. Just a special note: This installment is best read in a Cookie Monster type voice. _

**The Secret Life of Dumpsters**

S is for Stephanie, That's Good Enough for Me

I like eat. I eat every noms given to me. I eat food noms, and car noms, and animal noms. I even eat people noms. I never pass up noms. They too tasty. People noms are especially tasty. Sometimes people noms are just like food nom. They no move at all. But sometimes, people noms are wriggly. They move about inside me. They tickle me so much I laugh and let them out. They still tasty, but I wish they no take my other noms when they leave.

Today, I have special treat. I have lots of food noms from Chinese restaurant. I very happy for stale rice, especially when garbage bag break and it spill inside me. But that not all I have! Today I have two types people noms! I have smelly, tasty lie still people noms. And I have squirmy, screamy, thrashy people noms. This my favourite people noms in whole world. Stephanie. Sometimes people I don't eat calls her Babe. Sometimes cupcake. I like cupcakes. They almost as nommy as people noms, but I think that that people is confused. Doesn't know the difference between cupcake noms and people noms.

It was night time. Quiet in my alley. And dark. Street light smashed by gangster people in day time. Big van-car drives in and people get out and feed me two people noms. They not move, make me sad and relieved at same time. Car drive off after putting something heavy on my mouth. I not worry, though. Next person move heavy thing when they come.

I was enjoying taste and smell of my new people noms when belly start to rumble. This new sensation for me. Belly never rumble before. I start to worry. Maybe people feed me bomb and I explode. But then on people noms start to move in me. They moan and squirm. Rumbling stops for moment, then starts again. Moving people nom speaks.

"Ranger?"

I surprised. Moving people nom is Stephanie! She start moving more, feeling around.

"A dumpster, I think," she says. Then she gasp, and start scrambling inside me. She push at my mouth, trying to get out, but I not able to open for her. I feel sorry. She stuck inside me with smelly, not moving people nom. "I don't think I'm alone," she says, sounding panicky. "I don't think they're alive," she adds, her voice getting very loud. "And I'm trapped." She quiet a moment before saying, "Please hurry!"

She start pushing at my mouth again, probably hoping heavy weight will shift and I let her out, but nothing work. She cry and I wish she stop. I don't like when my Stephanie nom cries. When her crying get really bad she start retching and vomit. I like vomit noms, but I know people don't, especially when trapped with it.

Finally, big black car pull into alley and men jump out. Weight is lifted off my mouth and trembling Stephanie nom is hauled out of my belly. I sad to see her go. I like Stephanie nom, but she no like me. Ranger man take her to car and let her change clothes while other mans jump in my belly and examine not moving people nom. They only inside me short time before they jump out and talk on talking technology.

Then the light cars come and people are jumping in and out of me like I have bad reflux. Eventually they take away all my people noms and I left alone again. Nothing but aftertaste to remind me of my special meal tonight. Maybe I get more people noms again soon.

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><p><em>Keep up the awesome reviews and don't forget, I'm always looking for new objects to give a voice.<em>


	12. Gym Equipment

_I'd like to thank my mother for planting the seed of the gym equipment in my head. I'd also like to thank all those who constantly pester me to update because otherwise I might never get things done. And just FYI, I mean no offense by any of the comments in this story._

**The Secret Life of Gym Equipment**

_Voyeurism at its Peak_

My life is a constant slow motion montage of exposed flesh, slick chests and bulging muscles. If I had a sense of smell, it would be constantly filled with the scent of sweat and male pheromones. Just the thought of it is enough to make my weights droop as my joints go weak. So many machines would kill for my job – and God knows they have the ability with the inexperienced beings they have to put up with.

I've heard all about the gyms on the outside where chubby, overweight humans sweat their grease out all over the equipment a maximum of three times before they are never seen again. Whether they die from heart attacks caused by the unfamiliar exertion, give up on the idea of changing their lives for the better because of how sore they are after those first few sessions, or gym staff ask them not to come back because their potent, fast-food-infused smell was making them gag, I'm not sure. But I was so glad I was in here.

These men knew how to use a machine. Sure, I still got covered in sweat, but it was a small price to pay to feel their hard, tense muscles. To watch the rippling of their abs. It's literally a feast for the eyes. I love my job. Abs. Pecs. Biceps. Triceps. And any other muscles I could think of. All displayed for my viewing pleasure. It didn't get much better than this.

Of course the best time of day was first thing in the morning. It's like rush hour for macho men. The gym is packed full of so many bare chests that I can't concentrate on keeping my weights in line, luckily I have safety measures installed for just that purpose. I'm skipping from glistening muscle to glistening muscle, taking in the glorious sights when the door opens again.

The long-haired Latino man enters, wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. Every machine in the room is fixated on him. His long taut legs, dusted with a light sprinkling of hair. Smooth, dark chest, fresh from his lucky, lucky sheets. There were a few dark marks littering his abs and collarbone, which he wore proudly as proof of the previous nights' conquests. Probably with _the woman_. The diamond in his ear glittered as he quickly scanned the room. Machines around the room groaned in disappointment that they were already in use, while the few that were still free attempted – futilely, I might add – to make themselves more prominent.

My cables shivered as his gaze lingered on me and he started across the room in my direction. Oh. My. GOSH! Mr. Long-Haired Fabulous was going to work on me. This is quite possibly the greatest day of my life. Take that, public gyms! I have the most incredible man in the universe sweating on me and you have fried chicken grease from fatty pores. Excuse me while I fawn over his delicious body. This may take some time. I need to commit every single detail to memory.

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><p><em>You're all drooling, aren't you? I know I was by the time I finished writing it. Don't forget to reveiw.<em>


	13. Shower Curtains

_This story comes courtesy of the inspiration that hit while I was reading one of the recent chapters of Training Days by financebabe (which you should totes all go read, btw) - in particular the line "It had been months since anyone other than my shower curtain had seen me naked..." which appears in chapter nine. So I decided to write the secret life of shower curtains. Great! Then I was stumped by what kind of personality to give the dear thing. Pervy? It definitely had it's merits (and Shreek suggested that it have a thing for shampoo bottles...) but it didn't seem right. Gossipy Girlfriend? Well, it almost was. But then Shreek had a better idea that I simply couldn't pass up. It took a while for me to work out how to write it. But, clearly, I managed it, or you'd already be reading about a gossipy girlfriend shower curtain, right? Take a look!_

**The Secret Life of Shower Curtains**

_Not the Life I Bought Into_

Never in my life had I felt so disgusted. And, honey, I've been subjected to that woman buck naked and pressing up against me for years. Jake and Blake the twin drapes don't get it. They're straight. Total droolers. It's so gross the way they float after her when she walks past in just a towel. Personally, the very thought makes me shudder almost as much as when she enters the bathroom covered in garbage.

I thought women were supposed to be neat, tidy, clean, well groomed... It was the reason I had originally decided to go home with a woman. There was quite an extensive pro/con list involved, let me tell you. Men Pros: possible hunk to drool over, plenty of inspiration for my dirty thought sessions, lifetime of being up close and personal with male body, they're men_ duh!_ Men Cons: short showers, tend to have a disregard for home cleanliness, may choose an ugly woman as a mate. Woman Pros: possible hunk to perv on, clean, neat and tidy. Woman Cons: long showers, may choose a fat man as a mate, life time of being up close and personal with a feminine body. A lot was riding on the cleanliness thing, you see. I hate, hate, HATE germs and grime. Otherwise, I probably would have gone with a man. God knows I've regretted the decision a lot lately.

I could tolerate her blatant lack of respect for me so long as she was bringing around those cute men from time to time, but it's been months since I've seen a body that wasn't female, naked and covered in God-only-knows-what. Okay, that's not exactly fair, she isn't _always_ covered in complete and utter grossness. Just most of the time. Which brings me back to my disgust.

Currently, she was giving off a stench that made my non-existent stomach churn. If my fabulous flowers could shrivel up and die, I'm sure they would have – but of course, I got them for long lasting prettiness so they wouldn't. She was so ripe that even the drape twins were trying to get away, escaping as far as they could toward the window without physically going through it.

She started stripping off, dropping her clothes to the floor in a heap instead of the hamper – which was, just for the record, _right there_ – and I averted my attention to recalling every single detail of the men she had brought me. First there was the hairy one. I didn't usually go for hair – in fact, I _loathe_ the way it clings to me and refuses to budge – but this man was definitely well built, I just had to look past the hair. Firm abs. Taught buttocks. Broad shoulders. He'd definitely do in a pinch. Anything was better than this woman with her fowl stench. At least he was usually just the normal lived-another-day dirty. Then there was the Latino, all smooth and tan and hard. Everywhere. If that man had an ounce of fat on him, I was a bedspread. I lost myself in remembering the way his muscles bunched and released as he soaped himself up. The way the suds glided down his abs; as if purposefully drawing my attention to his _region_.

I was still ignoring her presence as she pulled me back and stepped into Tully the tub. I heard Tully groan as the grime began to sleuth off her body and into him, but I didn't dare pay attention. I just knew that the moment I gave her a skerrick of attention I wouldn't be able to get back to my happy place. My smooth, hard, tanned happy place. I drifted in the breeze caused by the stream of hot water, imagining the way I would often become stuck to his flesh when he bent over to pick up the shampoo bottle I purposefully knocked down. I would mould to his perfect rear cheeks, sliding up and down as he attempted to remove me. I could almost feel the rub of his smooth skin against me.

Jake and Blake snickered, snapping me out of my daydream and making me acknowledge once more that I was... Oh no. _Please_ no. Tell me I'm still dreaming. Tell me this is just some terrible nightmare! I wafted a little, testing things out, but refusing to gaze upon the horror. Panic rose out of nowhere.

"I'm stuck!" I exclaimed. "Oh God! Oh. My. God. This cannot be happening. Eww! Eww! Eww! I'm stuck to a woman's rear. Get me off! Somebody! Something! Help me!"

The Drape Twins were in guffaws by that point as I struggled to remove myself from her wet behind, only to end up clinging to the back of her thighs as well. Happy thoughts! Find your happy place. That would be so much easier if I wasn't stuck to a woman's flesh!

"Everything alright in there, Bomber?" a distinctly male voice carried through the bathroom door. _A man? _

"Fine," the woman replied, attempted to brush me off so that I was now attached to her arm. "I'll be done in a minute."

"Great," came the voice again. "I think my nose is about to drop off out here. How do you put up with this on a regular basis?"

Finally free, I wafted away, trying to interpret the conversation the humans were having.

"Believe it or not, you get used to it," she chuckled, shutting off the spray and stepping out of Tully. I looked down to see the gross residue she'd left all inside the pour tub and could only imagine what kind of vile substances were covering myself. "I'm gonna wrap myself in a towel and come out if you wanna borrow some hot water," she offered loudly.

PRAISE BE! I get a man after all! It's just a pity he's covered in the same gunk as the woman. The drapes groaned as the door opened and a new wave of stench billowed in as the woman left and – Oh. My. God. I have never seen such a massive, muscular man. I'm going to need all my concentration to commit him to memory. Away with you now. Away!

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><p><em>Is it me or are these objects getting pervier? Don't forget to review!<em>


	14. Shoes 2

_Unfortunately, there is no perviness this chapter. Sorry about that. Put in for your choice of who comes next and I might be able to come up with some perviness if you like. :P_

**The Secret Life of Shoes 2**

Sole Brothers

I have spoken to a lot of shoes in my time – flip flops, sandals, ballet flats, sneakers, joggers, FMPs, even a pair of taps once – but none have it harder than the average left combat boot, or Leftennant, as us Righties refer to them. Think about it, most shoe pairs work perfectly in tandem, sharing the loads, making joint decisions and all that jazz. Not combat boots though. You see, we have the misfortune of having a military background, where there is always someone in charge. So it evolved that the right combat boot, such as me, should naturally be in charge of their left counterparts.

Usually.

Of course, the system works if you believe in that sort of tried and tested thing. It's just that... I like my Leftennant too much to be able to boss him around. I told him so when we were new. First day we met, I watched him saying goodbye to his fellow lefties, mucking about and being happy. When I looked over at the already paired shoes I noted a distinctly dejected look on all the Leftennants. I couldn't bear to cause that loon on a fellow boot; it just didn't sit well with me. So as my new partner made his way over to me I ensured that I was out of hearing distance of my Righty friends.

"Leftennant Lev reporting for duty, Sir," he announced crisply, a total change from the demeanour I had witnessed moments before. "I'm only going to give you one set of orders, so listen carefully." I waited for Lev to confirm that he was paying attention, all stiff and nervous, before giving the most important statement of my life. "I am not your superior officer," I informed him firmly. "You are not to refer to me as sir under any circumstances. I am Rhys. Likewise, you are Lev, not Leftennant Lev or any derogatory names you may hear other Right Boots using. This is a partnership. I will respect you opinions and expect you to do the same for me, but decisions will be made jointly where applicable."

Lev was gobsmacked, not saying anything, which I took to be an indication of how intensely his inferiority complex had been beaten into him. It took a while for him to believe that I wasn't going to go back on my word the moment he moved his tongue against my opinion, but we got there, sharing responsibility for the outcome of all missions.

By no means was it an easy road. I was constantly ridiculed for _letting my Leftennant run amuck_, while Lev was admonished for not doing as he Righty said. _Righties are right for a reason, afterall._

Lev and I were closer than most combat boots were, for obvious reasons, but in no way did our relationship get in the way of our crime fighting abilities. In fact, I would say that our relationship improved out strength and cohesiveness. If it weren't for the fact that our methods were a little unorthodox I'm sure we'd have gotten combat boots of the month, instead of Riply and his mindless drone getting it all the time.

It was because of our friendship that I knew the Lev packed a decent roundhouse kick on him. Usually, the Righty does all the actual kicking, while the Leftennnt does all the supporting. Not us. We attack from any angle necessary to get out man. It's great being friends with my Leftie because I always have someone to wind down with after a particularly exciting mission. I can't imagine what kind of bundle of nerves I would be all the time if I didn't have Lev and the theme song he'd given our partnership: _Hey, Brother. Go Brother. Sole Brother. Go Brother._ Good times.

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><p><em>And now, I am off to read the latest chapter of Training Days which I deliberately ignored until I typed this up. FYI, my fingers are frozen right now, so I hope you appreciate it. I could have waited until morning when it's slightly warmer, but I decided it needed to be done now. Don't forget to review!<em>


	15. Sofas

_Written in like... half an hour. Inspiration hit and I had to punch it out before dinner... Dinner is now cooked and sitting there waiting for me, so enjoy._

**The Secret Life of Sofas**

Rich. Well fed. And conveniently located with the best view of the flat screen television. What more could a sofa ask for? I deserve a nice leisurely lifestyle, right? Especially when you consider the type of torture that old lady put me through. I suffered years of perfume and room deoderisers, smelling like a girl, and grubby kids wiping their fingers all over me, and cats, and the _vacuum. _ _I hate the vaccum._

I thought when Joe moved in that everything would be just fine. I could do the things a couch was supposed to do: Collect loose change. Eat left over chip crumbs. Watch TV. Drink the occasional beer spill. You know. Guy stuff. But instead, here I am fearing for my life.

That goddamn dog is going to be the death of me. Sure, cats are bad with their claws and insistence on sharpening them and digging them in and whatnot. But dogs are worse. At least this one is. I have been drooled on, vomited on, bitten, scratched and worst of all the animal is constantly jumping on me. Like I'm a trampoline or something. How would he feel if I jumped on him? It'd bloody-well hurts, damn it.

I can't completely blame the dog. Or Joe for that matter. Joe didn't actively go out and seek a dog to bring home and torture with me. No. It was _her._ That Stephanie Plum. She was the other bane of my existence; forever traipsing in here with her garbage and food scraps and dirt and... Ugh, I shudder at the thought of what else she could possibly have on her when she drops onto my cushions. At least the dog doesn't do that.

But that's beside the point.

It's _her_ fault the dog is here in the first place. Stupid, naive girl went and agreed to look after a dog only to realise she couldn't do it. I'm surprised that hamster of hers is still alive.

Joe came in and turned on the news as he kicked off his work boots. I relaxed as the third part of my living requirement was fulfilled, but my upholstery felt as if it had been starched a moment later as the doorbell rang. As per usual, the sounds of pounding paws coming down the hall swiftly followed. Joe made his way to the door and told the dog to go away, which it did, all the way over to me. He was about to climb up onto me when the voice drifted in from the entry way.

It was that wretched woman.

The dog was instantly running. I heard the running. The sudden stop as he jumped and the crash as they both landed on the ground.

"Bob!" Joe admonished.

"Yuck! He's drooling on me!" Stephanie complained.

I was giggling with glee before the first commercial break came on. She always gets her comeuppance.

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><p><em>You there. Don't leave this page before you review!<em>


	16. Cameras

_Shh! You are most definitely not reading this. Nope. Not at all. I am absolutely NOT taking a break from my NaNoWriMo project to bring you a quickie on the side. No sir-ree. But in saying that, if you'd like to check out my NaNoWriMo, I am posting it on FictionPress as I finish each chapter. Two are already up and the characters are already starting to rebel against me (I spent ten minutes yelling at the computer screen while frantically typing, because while the scene was flowing effortlessly, the character was taking on a role he was absolutely not meant to have. But I liked it, so I let him. Don't get me wrong, I let him know I wasn't happy, but he gets to do what he wants now). I'll post the link on my profile page if you're interested._

**The Secret Life of Cameras**

_I Didn't SEE Anything!_

I'm no gossip. Far from it, in fact. But I see things. _A lot_ of things. Things that would probably make you wet those ridiculous things called pants you humans insist on wearing. Rape. Murder. Drug use. I've seen it all. It comes from being situated in a bad neighbourhood.

Now, when you're surrounded by the things I'm surrounded by on a daily basis, your instinct is to keep your mouth shut. You don't say nothing. You keep your nose clean and your head down and you don't SEE anything. Seeing things, especially things that you mention to other people, gets you in trouble. I know. I been bashed so many times I lost count. I got a constant crick in my neck from these people that come into my alley causing harm and looking up at the last minute.

I try with all my might to not say anything to anyone, but there's these men. They dress all in black and carry guns and the like. It's like they have this direct link to my eye. They just siphon off everything I see. And you know who gets the blame?

Me. That's who.

Rapist hears the cops are looking for him, he smashes the camera in the alley he raped the woman. Why? Don't ask me. Maybe he thinks that by destroying the eye he destroys the brain. He's wrong. The eye transmits directly to a remote location. Even when I'm not looking, I'm looking.

I hate my life.

Maybe I deserve the bashings I get. Maybe I shouldn't be so transparent with what I see. Maybe I –

Maybe I should ask for a transfer. Somewhere nice and quiet. Like a strip mall. Yeah. I could be at home in a strip mall. Shoplifters always look for the cameras. They don't get as angry at us when they're caught. And I might get _actual_ gossip rather than the information that risks my very life.

Uh – oh. I better go. I have to pretend I'm not looking while this Hispanic man jimmies the lock on the back door to the strip club. Don't be surprised if you don't hear from me again. I'm pretty sure he has a gun.

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><p><em>Don't forget to review. And remember, this update was absolutely NOT posted during NaNoWriMo, no matter what anyone and their mother says.<em>


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